


Stairway to Heaven

by orphan_account



Series: Wonder [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 10:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas is extremely good at sitting on the couch for hours on end, eyes dull and lifeless, shoulders slumped, and Dean won’t admit it, but it gives him a little bit of pleasure that someone is more miserable than he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stairway to Heaven

_Blow me, Cas._

Even though mockery and sarcasm make up the majority of his inventory, there’s a strange lurch that comes with those three dumb words. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Cas wouldn’t be able to recognize sarcasm if it danced naked in front of him. It’s stupid that he’s agonizing over his word choice because at his core, Dean is a man of action and no regrets, no looking back, but this is a rare occasion in which his words reverberate oh-so-annoyingly in his skull because he just has nothing else to do except thing about the things he’s carelessly said to Cas. He’s pretty sure that if he’d said “last time someone looked at me like that, I got laid” to anyone else, it wouldn’t have been such an issue. Cas is a little too much like a kid sometimes, and it feels weird to snap at him when there’s a chance he might take it literally (even though the angel-gone-rogue has, actually, been getting better at being somewhat human). That, and the occasional, slightly-nauseating lurch in his stomach.

He changes the channel; the news is on. It’s been rainbows and puppies and butterflies since they stopped the apocalypse, and he snorts wryly before tossing the remote to the other end of the couch and standing for a drink.

“Gonna sit here all night?” says Bobby, jacket half-on and with one of those rage-inducing pity looks on his face. “Are you sure you don’t want to head down to the bar?”

“Bite me.”

Bobby gives him a long, searching look, and Dean just raises an eyebrow and down his glass of Jack.

“Okay,” Bobby says, giving up, and walks to the door. “You know where I’ll be.”

 

\---

 

Sulking is not a word used to describe Dean Winchester. Hunter is a good word. One that hasn’t been applicable, not really, since Lucifer stole his little brother and what feels like every demon pissed itself in fear and scurried back to hell. Cas hasn’t been much help; he sulks and mopes just like Dean does, and sometimes he just disappears without saying a word like he did roughly seven hours ago.

Dean sighs (petulantly, though he’ll never admit it) and pours another couple fingers of Jack. It pisses him off when Cas leaves because then he’s the only pissy one left. Cas is extremely good at sitting on the couch for hours on end, eyes dull and lifeless, shoulders slumped, and Dean won’t admit it, but it gives him a little bit of vindictive pleasure that someone is more miserable than he is.

At the same time, though, he’s a big brother to the core. His first priority has always been to keep Sam – well, not happy, maybe, but _functioning_ and the feeling has extended itself to the angel. This broken-lifeless-husk-of-Cas isn’t fun to tease any more, so they both sit and wallow and, maybe, enjoy each others’ company just a little bit instead of moping through it alone.

He sinks back into the couch as the news anchor tells him all about the beautiful weather they’re going to have for the next couple of days. He’s forgone the glass for the whole bottle; the label is smooth under his fingers. There’s a rustle of wings and a soft breeze. Cas is back, finally, and a slight weight lifts off of his shoulders.

“I do not know much about human food, but I am told that consuming too much alcohol isn’t healthy,” Cas says from somewhere behind him, and Dean can picture the slightly puzzled look on his face perfectly.

“Being a hunter isn’t healthy,” he grumbles back. True, he’s been drinking more in the past few days, but it’s nothing over-the-top. A bottle of whiskey or vodka a day isn’t that bad. Before he can take another swig from the bottle, Cas’ hand appears and takes it from him faster than he can blink.

“Where’s Bobby?” Cas’ voice is coming from the kitchen now. “Bar,” grunts Dean. “Probably trying to get it on with the sheriff. Doing what we should be doing.”

“I don’t understand,” says Cas, somewhere behind him again, and Dean rolls his eyes. “Why should we be trying to have any kind of relation with law enforcement officers?”

Dean doesn’t bother answering, which is their code for “you interpreted something wrong again.” He’s being a dick, the same way he’s always a dick when he can’t get his mind off of losing Sam, losing hunting, losing everything. The only thing he’s really got Cas, and sometimes the quiet companionship is enough, but sometimes Dean just wants to drive and drive and drive, get away from everything the way Cas can with a flap of his wings; he wants to kill monsters, he wants to scream, he wants to cry in moments like these.

“This needs to stop.”

It takes him a couple of seconds to realize he said it out loud, and that his voice broke. How manly. “This… sitting around, doing nothing. I can’t live like this, mooching off of Bobby, not even hunting.”

“Dean,” starts Cas slowly, “wherever your actions take you, I will follow if you want me to.”

Dean is taken aback. He’d always thought Cas was going to eventually head back to Heaven somehow, that he was only sitting on Earth to pass the time, and the thought of having Cas stick around long-term pleases him a lot more than he thought it would. The nauseous lurch comes back again, a little bit stronger than before, and he can feel a grin spreading.

“Alright,” he says, “so let’s hunt.”

 

\---

 

He hasn’t felt this alive in months. It wasn’t a difficult hunt – just a slightly senile poltergeist in an old apartment in downtown Chicago. The cheap motel smells stuffy, just like every cheap motel they’ve stayed at, but it’s somehow a welcome smell. His hair is still wet from the shower as he tugs a faded t-shirt over his head and hikes his sweats up. Cas is sitting on the edge of his bed and there’s actually the hint of a smile on his face. Dean hides his own smile; the protectiveness in him purrs at the thought that Cas is happy. Well, happi _er_.

The cuts on his shoulder sting and remind him that he should clean it properly; their first-aid kit always has hydrogen peroxide in it. He turns his back to Cas and pulls his shirt back off. Hunting had been a daunting prospect; he had been constantly scared that it would remind him of Sam too much but with Cas, it’s different somehow. There’s still the inherent trust and the adrenaline rush and the immense satisfaction at the end of the job, but sharing the experience with Cas is different in some way he can’t exactly put his finger on.

The peroxide stings on his shoulder, where the poltergeist had flung him into a dirty mirror. He doesn’t realize Cas is somehow next to him until there’s a palm pressed ever-so-lightly to the hand-shaped burn on his other shoulder. Dean jumps and is about to reprimand Cas about the blatant invasion of personal space when the look on his face hits him, full-force. It’s not happy or sad or particularly soft; it’s a little curious, like he doesn’t believe that it’s his handprint, and then Cas’ eyes flick up to meet his. They’re bluer than he thought they were, and full to the brim of wonder and something that he can’t identify.

“Dude,” Dean finally manages to say, “personal space.”

Cas is unusually silent and, even more unusually, doesn’t move.

“For what it’s worth, Dean,” he says quietly, “I am glad I was the one to raise you from Hell. You are a good friend to me.”

Dean has no idea how he managed to turn off the light and get in bed; his brain hasn’t stopped buzzing. Cas’ hand had felt like it was electrically charged when he touched the handprint and his stomach needs to stop the nauseous lurching right now. It’s faintly reminiscent of something like a _crush_ , some ailment he had when he was a kid in one of the schools they attended for less than a month and the little blonde girl with pigtails and a missing tooth had held his hand for all of recess.

And alright, it’s not like he hasn’t gotten attached to the stupid dick-angel, and it’s not like he’s never screwed around with guys before, and it’s definitely not like Cas’ stupid vessel isn’t attractive, but all of it put together is freaking him out. Cas is an odd one, and he can’t help but wonder about all of his quirks. Dean is a ladies’ man, a flirt, a player, he’s all of it. He _knows_ people, knows how to read them and tweak them and get them to sleep with him but Cas is a complete mystery. He tries to put the pieces together like he can for everyone else, but they’re not clicking.

Without fail, he’s brought back to the time when Cas beat him senseless for wanting to become Michael’s vessel. Cas had given him a full dose of heavenly wrath and by all means those memories should be groggy, but Dean can remember them perfectly. He can remember being shoved, icy-cold bricks pressed again his back and Cas’ warm body pressed against his front. He can remember the blood dripping from his nose, and the clouds of steamed breath in his face when Cas roared _I gave everything for you_ and that line repeats itself over and over, literally ad nauseum until he somehow falls asleep.

 

\---

 

Three months later, and Dean still can’t get Cas out of his head.

Granted, now that they’ve managed to find a decent, permanent house roughly 50 miles from Bobby and Dean is usually no more than twenty feet away from the winged idiot, it’s hard to not think about him.

It’s especially hard when he catches Cas slipping into human habits like falling asleep on the couch instead of his bed and his hair is tousled and, for once, his face is completely free of worry and it takes all he has not to touch his cheek. Or that one time they were hunting a particularly nasty ghost and Cas tackled him to the ground in order to save him from getting brained by an oak beam flying off of its shelf and Dean was buried under the angel and he could’ve sworn he felt feathers and his nose ended up buried in the crook of Cas’ shoulder and he found out just how nice Angel Smell is. Or when they’d limp back time after time after a tiring hunt, one of them clinging to the other’s shoulders, smelling like a grave or like blood or god-knows-what.

And Dean can’t be sure, but he _thinks_ that Cas isn’t completely oblivious.

Featherbrain had always been prone to borderline socially unacceptable things like staring (Dean is never, _ever_ going to forget that eyefuck he made fun of Cas for, months and months ago) and standing way too close for comfort, but the list is steady growing to include things like Hands Do Not Touch When Handing Someone Things and My Shoulder Is Not A Pillow and Don’t Breathe Down My Neck Like That. Dean is having a hard time admitting that maybe he might possibly like some of those un-rules, and he’s stopped reprimanding Cas for them.

The thing is, though, that Dean has the nagging feeling that Cas is doing some of these on purpose and not just because he’s an angelic moron who used to have barely enough emotions to fill a thimble.

All of this is slowly driving Dean crazy because it smells suspiciously of feelings. Real, legit, not-a-one-night-stand feelings.

He’s scared shitless.

The first time he realizes just how deep in this sludge he’s buried himself is when Cas announces that he’s going to heaven, just for maybe a day of Earth time, because he wants to talk to Joshua for a bit.

Dean is frozen.

He hadn’t even realized that Cas had stopped his disappearing thing after their first hunt, and now the thought of not being around Cas for more than an hour as they split up for a hunt is _terrifying_. He’d wondered if Cas was a substitute for Sam before, and he’d realized that no, this was something altogether different and that if Sam was here he’d still be his little brother and Cas would still be… Cas. Whatever he is.

“Dean?”

He blinked and swallowed.

Cas is inappropriately close again, with an endearing, puppy-dog-worried look in his eyes he must’ve picked up from Sammy somehow.

“Yeah, uh, sounds good,” he says, attempting to sound offhand. Cas still looks a little unconvinced at his performance, so he tacks a smile to the end of his sentence. “It’ll be good for you to see Joshua. I’ll, uh… I guess I can go to the bar. Just like old times.”

The carefree smile isn’t working; Cas frowns a bit at the mention of the bar, and a fleeting look of _something_ flicks across his face.

“Keep yourself out of trouble,” he half-purrs, half-growls in his Raised You From Perdition voice, the one he uses when he wants to emphasize something to Dean, and it’s the closest he ever gets to commands. Unfortunately, it’s also the voice that makes Dean’s mouth go dry.

“Me? Trouble?” he responds with slight difficulty, and raises an eyebrow. Cas just gives him this _look_ , and Dean grins to pacify him. “I’ll be fine, dude.”

“I hope to be back soon,” Cas says quietly, and refuses to meet his eyes. “I have grown fond of… Earth.”

Dean feels an overwhelming urge to do something but nothing feels appropriate, so he settles for fixing the collar of Cas’ trench coat. “Goodbye for now, Dean. I will still come if you call me.”

He looks him in the eyes one last time and then disappears into thin air with a rustle.

 

\---

 

He hasn’t felt this desolate for a _long_ time.

The bar is noisy and crowded and he orders one drink after another and sits and broods. The bartender keeps suspiciously close to him – she’s blonde and curvy and exactly Dean’s type, but he couldn’t possibly give less of a fuck.

“Anythin’ else you want, honey, you tell me and I’ll get it for ya,” she drawls to him after his sixth rum and Coke, then drops a wink.

He gives her a plastic smile and buries himself in the drink, belatedly remembering that he has to get home somehow. Twenty minutes later he pays his tab and shuffles out to the Impala.

The worn leather of his baby provides a small comfort, but unfortunately also reminds him of Sam and Cas and how both – or either, really – should be there next to him.

He remembers the day Cas discovered how to use the cassette deck, and that he’d spent fifteen minutes searching for Stairway to Heaven. Then he’d leaned back and closed his eyes and the look on his face was priceless bliss as the corners of his mouth twitched up in a tiny smile when Robert Plant started crooning the opening verse.

Dean sighs and slowly reaches for his box of tapes, mentally bashing himself for acting like a teenage girl, and pushes in the tape that has Led Zeppelin IV scrawled on it in his dad’s handwriting.

“ _Your head is humming and it won’t go, in case you don’t know–_ ”

“No shit, Zep,” he growls, and pulls into the street.

He’s not drunk, not really – he’s driven fine when he’s had more drinks, and he’s good at avoiding cops. Getting home presents him with no problems, but he has to stop himself from calling out to Cas when he opens the door.

It’s dark and quiet and sad in the living room, with no lights and no background noise and no Cas. Dean briefly considers calling Bobby and asking if he wants to stop by, but the idea isn’t as appealing once he pulls out his phone and he flops down onto the couch instead.

He didn’t know it’s possible to _miss_ a person this much.

Family, absolutely – including Bobby – but this Cas thing is getting out of hand. He’s careful to not think or say anything resembling a prayer. Having Cas find him drunk, on the couch, and in need of company would be absolutely pathetic.

He has no idea what this bundle of bullshit sitting in his chest is and he has no idea if these are “feelings” or friendship or family and he’s a little pacified by the fact that if he doesn’t know what it is, then Cas sure as hell won’t either and they can keep going in their weird little lifestyle.

But now, more than anything, he’s scared that Cas won’t come back. That Joshua will keep him in heaven, or that Cas will forget about life on Earth or about Dean and that he’ll stay there in that nothing-everything-place and never come back. Sam is gone and he’s come to terms with it, but if Cas left he doesn’t think he’d be able to survive.

He curls himself up miserably on the couch and pull a blanket halfway across himself; the alcohol is definitely working and he’s torn between sitting in misery and trying to sleep. Sleep eventually wins, and his dreams are fitful, full of looking for a pair of wings in dark emptiness.

 

\---

 

He’s disoriented when he wakes up; he’s in his bed somehow and it’s still dark outside, which is odd, but then he notices the silhouetted figure on his bed and his heart stops dead.

“Cas,” he croaks, voice thick with sleep, “I thought–”

“You fell asleep on the couch, which is something you told me people aren’t supposed to do,” he cuts in. “You are also very drunk and without a woman, which is an unusual combination for you.”

Dean hauls himself into a sitting position, speechless.

Cas is sitting on the edge of his bed, back towards him, and he would be too close for comfort if Dean didn’t find his presence comforting. He swallows with difficulty; from this perspective it looks like Cas’ eyes are glowing, and it’s very non-human and completely distracting.

“I thought you weren’t coming back,” he mumbles. Cas frowns.

“You called for me,” he says, “in your sleep. I thought something was wrong.”

Dean is mortified. He was talking – _calling for Cas_ – in his sleep? He can feel his face turning red, and realizes it must have had something to do with his dreams.

“God, I must be shitfaced,” he proclaims dazedly. “I, uh… I should sleep.” Cas’s frown deepens.

“You look perfectly healthy, other than being drunk.”

It’s _so good_ to have Cas back that Dean doesn’t even roll his eyes, he just attempts to pat him on the shoulder and cradles the back of his head by accident, then grins before slumping bonelessly against Cas’ arm. If he had been sober, he would’ve noticed Cas looking down at him with the slightest surprise on his face.

It’s silent for a few minutes except for the sound of their breathing, and Dean is nearly asleep when he remembers he meant to say something.

“Cas,” he murmurs sleepily, “don’t leave, okay?”

Gravity pulls him down to the mattress, curled halfway around Cas.

“Okay.”

A warm weight leans against his chest.

 

\---

 

He wakes up with no hangover, and he suspects it was Cas’ work.

The angel is sitting at the small kitchen table, finishing off a piece of toast and glancing through the newspaper. He looks exactly like a normal guy getting ready to go to work, and the thought is so absurd to Dean that he has to hide a smile.

There is no denying that his high spirits are a result of Cas being there, and he wonders if and when the moron’s going to catch on. He cracks two eggs over the pan and turns to watch Cas as he waits for them to fry properly. The angel really did find himself a good-looking vessel, he thinks, and takes a few seconds to admire the sharp planes of his face then mentally reprimands himself.

Dean Winchester is not a teenager mooning over a crush.

He turns back to his eggs and suddenly Cas is at the sink next to him, washing his dishes. Their shoulders are touching. It’s a rare, quiet moment and even though Dean’s aching to say something and find words for how desperate he felt the day before, he knows now is definitely not the time. The sentimentality is almost disgusting.

Cas lingers in the kitchen as Dean starts on his eggs, hands in his pockets and staring at him with no shame, the same way he always stares. After one egg is demolished, Dean looks up to meet Cas’ stare and it takes him a good thirty seconds to realize he and Cas are just quietly looking at each other and he’s lost in a sea of blue.

 

\---

 

The beer in his hand keeps getting warmer; the couch is in a patch of afternoon sunlight, there’s a rerun of _The Terminator_ on, and Cas is next to him, entranced. He feels like a tired, sleepy cat, and he’s tempted to curl up and take a nap. Cas is intently scrutinizing the sex scene that’s just started, and Dean wonders if he’s going to have to answer any birds-and-bees questions this round.

The sun keeps getting warmer and he keeps getting drowsier and his mind starts to wander lazily, trying to unknot the tangle of just exactly what had happened yesterday.

He’s never _missed_ someone like that. It’s nothing compared to how much he misses Sammy – his heart clenches painfully at the thought – but without Cas it hurt, too, and there had been a new hole in his chest next to the one where Sam used to be, but he can’t quite put his finger on what’s going on.

Cas is family, Cas _should be_ family like Ellen and Jo and Bobby, that’s how it _should_ be, but while half of his head is convinced he’s family, the other half is screaming not-family. Dean trusts Cas more than anyone alive right now except maybe Bobby, but Bobby is family and Cas is family-not-family and it’s all starting to drive him crazy. By all means, he should be sorting Cas into the brother category, but there’s something in him quietly insisting that Cas is a not-brother, not-family and there’s no category for it.

Yet.

Cas’s head droops lightly onto his shoulder. His weight is barely there, a gentle pressure against his side, tucked into the curve of the arm that’s draped against the back of the sofa. Dean can feel the angel-not-human warmth radiating from his body and it only serves to make him drowsier. He pushes the still-warring thoughts out of his mind. He can allow himself a nap – he’d washed the Impala and waxed her, too, and sleep sounds great, thank you.

 

\---

 

A car door slams somewhere outside and he blearily opens his eyes to a sea of dark hair. He’s slumped over, head on Cas’, and he notes with a small purr of satisfaction that Cas isn’t so stiff around him any more; he’s relaxed, leaning comfortably, pliantly into his side. Dean realizes his arm has slipped down and curled itself around Cas’ shoulders, and that it should be bothering him a bit more. He can feel Cas’ soft, even breaths against his neck.

Cas lifts his head.

Dean is suddenly struck by how close they are and that _he wants to kiss him_.

His mouth goes completely dry and his brain comes up with a thousand reasons to do it and a thousand more not to. The not part eventually wins and he swallows, then stands and stretches and tries to act casual.

So he wants to kiss the person most important to him.

No big deal. Totally normal.

Cas is an attractive guy. Well, vessel.

He grabs the empty beer bottle and walks it to the kitchen. It clinks lightly when he drops it in the slowly-accumulating-more-empty-bottles box, so he doesn’t hear Cas come up behind him and jumps slightly. Curiously, that stubbly, all-sharp-angles face looks humanly _guilty_.

“Cas, what is it?” he asks slowly. His heart is somewhere deep in his stomach.

“I need to speak with Joshua again,” he says, refusing to meet Dean’s eyes. “One last time. I promise to be back in an hour.”

Every fear Dean had before comes rushing back to choke him; he’s frozen and at a compete loss for words. The panic must have been showing in his face, because Cas moves even closer to him and his guilty expression intensifies.

“Apologies.”

Dean hitches a plastic smile onto his face, does his best not to jump when Cas’ hand circles around his bicep.

“Do what you gotta do,” he manages to choke out. Half of his mind is panic panic panic and the other half is raging. _Look at how pathetic you are, acting like you need him_.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he continues, “it makes me as uneasy to leave as it does you.”

“Well–” Dean clears his throat and tries to ignore the fact that his brain is going haywire. “Just, uh… faster you leave, faster you’re back, right?”

Cas frowns a little bit, the way he does when he’s trying to figure out something human, so Dean gives him some time. The hand on his bicep is firm but gentle, warm through the thin t-shirt.

“Dean, I am… not good at showing human affection,” he starts hesitantly. Dean can feel his heart shoot up into his throat. “I am hoping this gesture is appropriate.”

He can’t move. Not a single muscle.

Cas lowers his eyes and leans forward and then _Cas is kissing him_.

It’s light, extremely chaste, the way his mouth is pressing softly against Dean’s; before Dean can even kiss him back the stupid angel is gone with a whoosh.

His hands are still shaking, twenty minutes later.

The first coherent thought comes when he sinks into the couch.

 _Poor Cas_.

Poor guy probably had no idea that kissing him was something that would be filed under “romance,” a category Dean has spent his entire life running from but, incidentally, for Cas he might just maybe perhaps possibly give it a shot.

There’s really nothing to do but wait for him to get back and in the meantime remember the exact details of how it had felt to kiss him – his slightly chapped lips, the way his stubble felt, windswept hair brushing against his forehead, that Cas smell that he’s learned is absolutely perfect. He runs through it over and over and over, and he’s sure there’s a heart attack on its way.

 

\---

 

It feels like five hours pass, but twenty minutes later Cas appears next to him on the couch with a slight rustle.

“Apologies,” he murmurs, guilt filling up every inch of those baby blues. “It seems I chose to express my sentiment in the wrong manner.”

Dean leans in close, presses his side all along Cas’ and doesn’t even care how much it makes him look like a lost puppy. This is it, he knows, this is where he has to set things straight with Cas. He thinks for a few seconds – he hates these chick-flick moments, and this is bound to be a thousand times worse because Cas is oblivious to anything even resembling emotions so he’s going to have to use words he hates like “feelings.”

“Cas, I–” He starts and stops and rethinks. “People kiss each other as a sign of affection, yeah. Like, I would kiss you if–” He stops again and swallows. “If I thought of you as, uh, more than a friend or a brother.”

Cas just keeps looking at him, all curiosity and god those eyes should be illegal.

“I see,” he murmurs. That _voice_ should be illegal. “In that case, my sentiment was appropriate, but the issue lies in–”

And at that moment Dean simply _can’t take it any more_ and he grabs Cas’ stupid angel face between his hands and kisses the shit out of him.

There’s a hand pressing into his very most favorite spot on his back – how did Cas even know? – and another at the base of his neck and it’s all Dean can do to stop himself from purring with happiness.

“Dean, I don’t underst–” Dean cuts him off because _no_ , three seconds away from Cas’ mouth is entirely too much and Cas seems all too happy to agree but a minute later, Cas’ hands find their way to Dean’s face and he holds him there, both breathless. “Does this mean you feel romantic affection for me?”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Yes, you moron,” he growls, and pushes himself closer. “Now stop talking. I got more important plans for your mouth.”

And with that he practically _throws_ himself at Cas; for the first time, all he wants to do it sit here and kiss and be kissed. This isn’t a night to fuck then pay then leave. The desperation ebbs slowly away and their mouths are moving gently, absently until they’re left burying their faces into each others’ shoulders and Cas has to be careful not to crack any of Dean’s ribs with his arms. The trench coat is a lot cleaner than it looks and it smells exactly like Cas does; Dean tangles a hand in the mess of dark hair.

“Cas,” he breathes, “Cas. _Cas_.”

“You are the first person to call me by something other than my full name,” comes the muffled response. “I like it.”

Dean’s arms tighten.

“Cas.”

He’s content to stay there for the rest of the night. Hell, spending the rest of his life like this sounds like a plan.

At the same time, he’s _scared_. He’s never felt like this – it’s always been fuck, fuck, fuck, but now he’s not even interested in getting Cas shirtless or even in taking the stupid trench coat off. The knot of feelings in his chest has managed to unravel and how he feels it in every inch, right down to the tips of his fingers, gently rubbing at Cas’ scalp.

And then it _really_ hits him.

He doesn’t just have the rest of the day to do this, or the rest of the week or the year – he’s been to heaven and he knows what it’s like so if he really wants to, he can spend all of eternity in Cas’ company. And _he wants to_.

The thought scares him so badly that he starts shaking.

“Dean?” Cas leans back to face him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says breathlessly. “I just…”

“Are you happy?” asks Cas, solemn and righteous and stupidly _angelic_.

“Yeah. And I’ve got a lot of time to be happy.”

A pause, a kiss.

“Cas? You happy?”

Cas buries his face into Dean’s shoulder again.

“Yes.”

 

\---

 

They spend the rest of the day glued together.

Dean will never forget the first time he hears the little catch in Cas’ breath when he presses a light kiss to the curve of his neck, nor will he ever forget the feeling of Cas’ slim fingertips shyly pushing up the hem of his t-shirt, ever so slightly, and touching his hip. The look of astonished wonder never leaves Cas’ eyes when he traces Dean’s jawline, the curve of his lips, his nose, part of a collarbone. A rare, real, full smile creeps across his face and Dean can’t help but return it.

He doesn’t ask, at night, just crawls in next to Cas after brushing his teeth and lets him nudge his head under his arm and onto his chest. It’s his turn to explore; he slowly pushes off the coat and loosens the tie and starts to unbutton the shirt but pauses and searches Cas’ face, silently asking if it’s okay. Cas just starts unbuttoning from the bottom. Their hands meet in the middle and Cas sighs as Dean nudges him gently onto his back and runs his hands under the shirt, eyes closing in bliss as he pushes it off. His fingers move up to trace every sharp plane of Cas’ face and it hits him again, that this scruffy, tired, messy-haired angel-person is his, every inch, and he can’t stop the grin.

“Cas,” he murmurs, and kisses a line down his jaw.

“Yes?”

The reply hums under his lips, and he chuckles quietly, shakes his head, and makes his way back to Cas’ mouth.

Cas seems to realize for the first time that Dean is shirtless, and his fingers follow every line, every curve, marveling in the body he helped piece back together and then his mind is drawn back to the broken thing he dragged out of Hell, the shattered scraps of soul that were held together by sheer stubbornness.

“Your soul is beautiful, Dean,” he breathes. “If only you knew.”

His hands move to the burn on Dean’s shoulder and that electric current is back; Dean gasps as his skin tingles, and the look on Cas’ face matches exactly what he’s feeling.

“Dammit, Cas,” whispers Dean.

“When I raised you from Hell, I was unsure of what it was that drew me to you so strongly,” Cas continues, deadpan, “and I was unaware I was supposed to manifest these emotions physically until recently.”

Dean stares.

“This whole time?”

Cas nods as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

He remembers the assault and finding the miserable, shining bundle of Dean-Winchester-soul and taking it in his hands; the exhilaration was something he’d never confessed to feeling to his brothers, but he will never forget the brush of Dean’s soul against his Grace, the feeling of carefully, painstakingly stitching back together everything that makes Dean who he is. He knew from the second he held Dean’s soul, his entire being in his hands, that _this_ is the man he would do anything for.

“Touching someone’s soul is a profound experience,” he continues, softly, as Dean lowers himself to touch noses in a gesture more ridiculously sentimental than he’d ever done.

“Yeah, well, if I get any more profound than this I’m gonna start pukin’ rainbows,” mutters Dean, fingers combing through Cas’ dark mess of hair. His face is skeptical and slightly confused for a split second, and then the corner of his mouth twitches up in a smile and he chuckles – very quietly, and very briefly.

Dean’s jaw drops.

“You _laughed_ ,” he says, amazed. “God damn, I need to make you do that again.”

Cas’ smile widens ever so slightly and Dean kisses him again.

“I am glad that my understanding of your humor pleases you.”

He can hear the proud, pleased purr in his voice.

“Cas, everything you do pleases me,” Dean chuckles, and rolls over onto his side. “Any more of this chick-flick crap, though, and I’m never gonna be able to live with myself.”

 

\---

 

The first time Dean actually lets himself use the word “angelic” to describe Cas is that morning.

He opens his eyes to see him two inches away, still deep asleep, head tousled worse than usual, sunk deep in white sheets and with the sun streaming full-force through the window to layer his face with light and dark.

“Son of a bitch,” he breathes before he can stop himself.

Cas opens a bleary blue eye, blinks, and then pushes himself into the hollow at the base of Dean’s neck. It’s an altogether extremely way-too-intimate gesture that has Dean borderline freaking out, because not only does it count as cuddling, but it serves to highlight the feelings roaring out of control in his chest and he _wants_ it.

For the first time in his life he doesn’t want a fling or flirting or even sex – he just wants the scruffy, sleepy, socially awkward angel-person whose breaths are currently tickling his collarbone.

 _Sex_.

Dean’s stomach drops when he remembers he’s got needs (not that he’s actually picked anyone up since he got out of Hell, really) but Cas is incredibly, painfully _virgin_ and hell, angels could be asexual. One wrong move and he could fuck everything up, and the thought winds itself into the pit of worry gnawing in his stomach.

“Cas?” He brings a hand up to slowly run his fingers through the tousled mop of hair on his shoulder.

“Yes?”

“I’m scared.” Dean swallows, as bad as always with this _feelings_ stuff. “I don’t–” He laughs nervously. “–I’ve never, uh… Never really felt like this before.”

Cas makes a wry, indignant sort of noise in his throat and it’s so human that Dean can’t help cracking a slight smile.

“I’m an angel,” he replies dryly, voice raspier than normal and layered with sleep. “Before meeting you, I had never felt emotion.”

Dean suddenly feels very small, extremely _young_ as he remembers that Cas isn’t just the meatsuit, he’s a freakin’ _angel_ who’s probably older than Ancient Egypt.

“I guess we’re in this mess together then, huh,” Dean muses quietly, and turns over to bury his face is Cas’ hair. He’s discovered that he really likes Cas’ hair, and that it’s much softer and less knotted than he’d imagined it to be.

Not that he’d imagined what his hair feels like.

The minutes stretch on; Dean’s hand is still buried at the back of Cas’ neck and there’s a hand that’s found its way around his waist. He hasn’t felt this peaceful in a long, long time.

“I never thought I would be so glad to have rebelled,” murmurs Cas quietly, stubble tickling at his neck.

Dean has no words for his reply and instead kisses him, long and slow, hoping that his mouth can convey what he can’t find clumsy words for. Cas seems to understand; he pushes Dean onto his back and follows through, settling over him with a delicious, warm weight. He curls a hand into the hollow at the back of Cas’ neck and pulls him down to his mouth, sighing into the kiss, wondering for the thousandth time already why it took them so long to put the pieces together.

 

\---

 

It’s still strange to see Cas acting human, even after months.

He’s taken to eating and drinking and sleeping out of habit, but still manages to be outrageously peculiar – White Castle is still his favorite, but Dean knows he also likes Middle Eastern food and red borscht and baklava and his steaks medium well, baked potato on the side, sour cream and butter only, please and thank you.

The one thing he finds _really_ odd, though, is that Cas doesn’t like coffee. No matter how it’s made, he’ll shrug it off. Dean’s entire career as a hunter has always hinged on coffee so to him, it’s unimaginable. Cas sticks to tea, for some weird reason, and always the obscure kind from god-knows-where.

Steam curls out of the mug in his hand and Dean watches it disappear slowly, then gets lost in re-memorizing every curve and line and angle on Cas’ face.

“Does this feel different to you?” he asks without preamble, without bothering to add an explanation. Cas sets down his mug and gets right up in his personal space; Dean’s automatic reaction has him standing with his back pressed into the countertop.

“Different?” His voice is low, quiet, and Cas raises a very human, pensive eyebrow. “I think liberating is the right word.”

Somehow he’s got his hands firmly planted on the counter on either side of Dean, and he’s giving him that I’m An Angel Of The Lord stare.

The novelty of being this close to Cas hasn’t worn off yet, but it still feels like the most natural thing in the world to lean in that last little bit and kiss him. He doesn’t realize when it happens but Cas is pressed flush against him, like he’s worried that Dean is going to disappear right from under his nose. He’s rougher now, lets himself be just that little bit hungrier when he kisses Cas, lets the desperate need show in the way his hands are bunched in the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

“Oh,” he finally replies, “because to me it doesn’t feel all that different.”

He moves down to explore his eternally-stubbled jaw, then to the curve of his neck, murmuring words all along the skin that still hums with unearthly power.

“Feels like it shoulda felt this whole time.”

Cas’ breathing is definitely a little more strained, and the lights flicker dangerously when Dean ever-so-lightly presses his teeth to Cas’ carotid. Almost instantly Cas’ hands are in motion, one curled tight in his hair and the other under his jaw, pulling their mouths back together in an open-mouthed kiss that has him completely breathless within seconds.

It’s almost scary how easy it is, how familiar Cas’ body is beneath his hands.

He’s not going to start anything without knowing his territory; the knowledge that he _cannot_ fuck this up keeps him in check so for now he’s testing the waters. He’ll take his time to learn exactly what it is that makes Cas tick, how to unravel him and put him back together. He leans back.

The early-morning sun is still filtering in through the windows and lighting up Cas’ eyes like fireworks in an ocean, and, not for the first time, Dean wonders why in _hell_ anyone like Cas would want someone like him, even ignoring the fact that the dude’s an _angel_. Cas’ eyes shift from heavenly smiting to lost puppy and he buries his face in Dean’s shoulder; they fit together perfectly, what with Cas barely an inch shorter, and Dean wonders if the two of them were just made like that.

An idea suddenly strikes him, burning uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.

“Cas? You didn’t, like, angel-mojo me into this, did you?”

There’s a steely, dangerous note that creeps unintentionally into his voice, and he winces as Cas steps back.

“If anything,” he says, voice pitched low, “ _you_ were the one who ‘angel-mojoed’ me.”

“I– what?”

Cas sighs and crosses his arms, and Dean swears he’s going to somehow take revenge on Sam for passing along his bitchface.

“You really have no idea what you’ve done to me, do you?” He’s drawing a blank and his face has to be reflecting it because Cas keeps going. “The second I reached your soul in Hell, you wound yourself so tightly into my Grace that I can still feel it. You changed me, Dean. You woke up something that no angel still in the service of God should be able to feel.”

“Whoa, whoa–”

“You are a part of me as much as my Grace is,” Cas continues, moving so close that Dean can feel his breath and something hitches in his chest. He leans forward to kiss him but Cas dances away. “So, Dean, the question should be, ‘did _you_ human-mojo _me_?’”

He just stares, dumbstruck, as something incredibly frightening creeps up on him.

“Are you _in love_ with me?”

Cas frowns in his usual manner.

“I don’t entirely understand the definition of being ‘in love,’” he replies, and Dean attempts to swallow. “It’s very human.”

Somehow his hands have found their way back onto Cas’ hips and they’re resting there idly, fulfilling his need for physical contact. The thought of _since when do you need physical contact_ worms itself into his head and he stubbornly pushes it away. He shrugs and gives a cheeky smile as a peace offering.

“That makes two of us,” he admits, face growing hot. “Alright, so we don’t know what we’re doin’, but we’re doin’ it.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

And with that he kisses Cas again, soft and slow and deep, the way he’s never really kissed anyone else – and Cas kisses back like no one he’s ever kissed before. He puts every last scrap of his attention into it and it makes Dean feel like he’s the most important person in the world – which he is definitely _not_ – but when Cas is kissing him, he can quietly believe it.

**Author's Note:**

> Stairway to Heaven is one of my favorite songs ever. Of all time. Imagine my complete shock when it's mentioned in Season 7. :B


End file.
